


with blood on his teeth

by riverbanks



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Mild Blood, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Public Hand Jobs, Secret Relationship, Sheith Week 2016, Sheith Week 2016: Fight Me/Love Me, Sheith Week 2016: Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 05:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8358895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbanks/pseuds/riverbanks
Summary: The first time Shiro tastes blood in his mouth, he steals it from Keith’s lips.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Кровь на зубах](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11894472) by [theotterone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theotterone/pseuds/theotterone)



The first time Shiro tastes blood in his mouth, he steals it from Keith’s lips.

It's Tuesday, 2050 in the night, and Shiro walks out of the 7-11 with two bags of the special kind of supplies they can't get from commissary -unregulated candy, but also deodorant that doesn't smell like dirty socks, for starters- to find Keith sitting on the curb, grinning at him like a feral wolf - _like a lion,_ face covered in red, blood dripping on the pavement from the tip of his nose. The fourth-years Shiro bumped shoulders with on his way into the store are nowhere to be found anymore and, at a wild guess, Shiro suspects some of the blood spatter staining the front of Keith's shirt might not be his.

Keith offers no resistance when Shiro pulls him up on his feet by the forearm, pushes him into the shadows, out of the view of security cameras. He drags Keith into the darker alleyway near the bathroom stalls, and around to the back of the gas station, Keith stumbling along like dead weight under his hand. Shiro swears under his breath as he drops his grocery bags to shove Keith against the wall.

“I was only gone for _fifteen minutes_ ,” he hisses, like a curse, as he raises Keith’s chin to check out the mess on his face. “How do you keep getting yourself into trouble like this?”

Keith shrugs, nonchalant even as blood keeps pours from his nose in a slow trickle. “They were talking shit.”

Shiro grimaces, sighs exasperated, tired of repeating himself. “How many times do I have to tell you, you’re better than-”

“Not me,” Keith cuts into his thousandth times over terse yet supportive encouragement speech. “You. They were talking shit about you.”

Shiro’s hand tenses around Keith’s jaw for a second, and then his grip loosens, turns to a light touch, soft as his thumb runs a line across Keith’s chin. Shiro feels his whole body unwind, shoulders sagging as the fight leaves him, lips pursing as he mellows out under Keith’s gaze. There’s a kerchief in his pocket, somewhere, and Shiro pulls it out to wipe over the blood smear on Keith’s cheek, hold it under his nose for a minute, letting his own heartbeat settle down.

“Well, I’m better than that too,” Shiro tells him, dabbing lightly at the smears, trying to clean Keith’s face without making even worse a mess of it. “And I don’t want you defending my honor with your fists, okay?”

“Okay,” Keith answers, hollow, staring at some vague point around the length of Shiro’s neck.

Shiro cocks his head, shuffles closer to get Keith to look him in the eye, and nods to the cameras up on the wall, facing away from them, filming his red hoverbike parked against the gas pump. “Keith, I’m serious. We could _both_ get discharged it you get caught fighting like this.”

“Okay,” Keith answers again, but Shiro can already tell it’s not a promise that he won’t do it anymore -more like he just won’t do it when anyone’s looking.

Keith is still staring at his neck, lost in a daze as Shiro wipes his face clean. Shiro cleans around his nose, feels it under his thumb to make sure it's not broken, and he's almost getting caught up enough in nursing Keith's wounds to forget why he's mad at him, when he dabs at the corner of Keith’s mouth and Keith hisses suddenly, jerking in place and bumping against his leg. That’s when Shiro feels it.

“...are you _kidding_ me?” he asks barely above a whisper, eyes wide half in terror, half wanting to laugh at how absurd this whole scene is.

Keith is hard against his thigh, and he holds Shiro’s stare and rolls his hips forward, grinding lightly against him to let Shiro know that no, he’s absolutely not kidding about popping one from throwing punches on a gas station at 2100 on a weekday, to defend Shiro’s reputation from whatever underperforming seniors are complaining about his scores on the simulator this time.

“No, listen, we can’t do this here,” Shiro starts to say, looking quickly around, suddenly anxious, like a spotlight has been turned on them, but Keith’s already taken his hand and guided it lower down his body, until Shiro is cupping him through his pants, and the way Keith’s breath catches on his throat when Shiro touches him burns right through Shiro’s defenses faster than the fear of getting caught can take over him.

Shiro tries to move away, to reason with himself -getting caught fighting could get them discharged, getting caught with his hand down Keith’s pants in public could get them both _arrested_ \- but then Keith moans his name, still grinding against his hand, and Shiro is lost.

He pulls Keith further down the alley and behind a dumpster, until it’s dark enough they can barely see each other, out of the range of cameras or passing cars, and this time when he shoves Keith against a wall again, Shiro follows him down, sinking his teeth on the hollow of Keith’s neck. Keith breathes hard into his ear, hands coming up to bury into Shiro’s hair as Shiro’s hand finds his crotch again, palms Keith through his jeans, feeling him harden more and more under his touch.

“Sorry,” Keith gasps as Shiro fumbles with the fly on his jeans. “Trying-”

“I know,” Shiro mutters into his neck, kissing a path up to Keith’s ear. With zippers and buttons out of the way, he sneaks his fingers into Keith’s briefs and takes his dick in hand, giving him a light tug. It’s enough to make Keith moan just a little louder, and it sounds like a gunshot in the quiet of night.

Shiro whispers against his hair, _ssssh,_ and Keith nods against his cheek, feverish, grinding against his hand for more. Shiro obliges, taking a firmer grip on Keith’s dick and pumping it hard, fast, no time for feather touches or gentle caresses here, when someone could come out the backdoor anytime to take the trash outside. A new wave of fear runs up Shiro’s spine and he shivers, annoyed with himself when he starts to feel his pants growing tighter too -his career could be on the line, but his dick is apparently loving the thought of getting caught now.

He pushes into Keith’s body, molding his frame into Keith’s smaller one, and Keith’s ragged breath and small gasps against his shoulder burn a path straight to his dick. Shiro ignores himself and focuses on his hand on Keith’s dick instead, running his thumb over the slit and smearing the clear slick over the head, using the new lubricant on his fingers to tug the skin around Keith’s dick a little lower, pump him a little faster.

“I know you’re trying,” Shiro murmurs into his ear, easing his grip and letting Keith fuck himself into his hand. “I need you to try a little harder, okay? Keep us both out of trouble.”

Keith swallows, lets his head fall back and nods again, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re better than any of them,” he gasps, hips rolling in time with Shiro’s hand.

Shiro snorts, kisses the tip of Keith’s earlobe. “So are you. But this,” and he kisses the scratch on Keith’s chin, “doesn’t prove anything.”

Keith stares at him, a light frown on his face like he wants to argue, but at the same time not.

“Just be the best pilot you can be,” Shiro continues, giving the base of Keith’s dick a squeeze that makes Keith’s whole body shudder. “If they can’t keep up, that’s not your problem. You don’t owe them anything.”

The corners of Keith’s lips curl up, a slow grin spreading out and lighting up his face even here in the dark, and Shiro could eat up the rare sound of Keith’s laughter as it rumbles low against his chest.

“I get all the fame,” Keith chuckles, “But you’re kind of a dick too, poster boy.”

Shiro gives him another squeeze for that, and this time Keith can’t help the groan that escapes him, echoing so loud in Shiro’s ears he’s sure the whole town can hear them. He pulls back and watches Keith’s face, the darkening bruise under his eye that they’ll have to find a way to conceal later, the way his mouth hangs open, breathing heavily as Shiro works him closer and closer to finish.

The blood on Keith’s nose has dried up, but the straining to keep himself quiet has burst the cut on his lip again, and a thin line of blood trickles halfway down his chin, staining his lower lip red,  mesmerizing Shiro. His throat feels dry when Shiro swallows, and before he knows it he’s leaning down to lick the small trail clean to the corner of Keith’s lips, the tangy taste of Keith’s blood bitter on his tongue as Keith pulls him down into a kiss, nails scratching at the sides of his face. Shiro’s grip on his dick tightens again, and Keith moans deep into his mouth as Shiro pumps him harder, faster, one last time, and Keith stills and shudders against him, spills all over his hand, biting Shiro's name into his lips.

Every small noise echoes impossibly loud in Shiro’s ears then, rats pitter-pattering down the street sounding like a battalion marching around them, and he pulls Keith’s jeans closed again in a flash, his hands jerky and his arms stiff as Keith melts again him. The rush is over, and everything sounds too loud, looks too bright now, this was insane and they have to _go_.

Keith stumbles out of his arms, dizzy, still half high from the fight, half crashing from his orgasm, one hand on the wall for the support as he walks back to the front of the station, and Shiro has to blink himself awake from a stupor too to follow his steps. He picks up his groceries and rushes to Keith’s side, falling in line with him, careful to stay close enough in case Keith stumbles, far enough that the cameras only catch two cadets hopping onto a bike on the way back to camp, nothing to it but for the way Shiro remembers too late to pull his kerchief out and wipe his hand clean before putting his gloves back on.

Keith puts on his helmet and sits up straight on the bike, enough distance between them that it’s just a ride downtown for supplies, not like they’re trying to spend time together, to _fraternize_ , and Shiro chews on his tongue, feeling that tangy taste in his mouth again. One day they really won’t owe anyone anything, but for now all he has is the vacancy of Keith’s hands gripping the passenger handles,  instead of wrapped around his waist.

“I’ll try harder,” Keith calls out from behind him, his voice muffled under the helmet and the hum of the wind building under the bike.

Shiro reaches back to tap twice on Keith’s thigh, the feeling of Keith’s come still drying under his nails making him grin under his helmet, where no one can see him, no one can throw regulations at the blood on his teeth.

Trying is not enough, but for now it’s the best they can do.

 


End file.
